Stuck on the other side of the horizon,
strolling down the lights of Spadina,
till the water’s edge greets me with its phosphorescence,
and the air of yesterday smells like pinewood.
A scent of something nice, lost in the fog.
amid the highest glass,
I find myself thinking what would’ve been like,
to be a son of the other side,
a child of the land of the never-ending fields.
Will I ever change?
All the time that sun shines and the warmth of its rays crosses my windows,
I feel like I’m still there,
standing on the platforms of Union Station,
dreaming of a brilliant future,
a simple smile from a cute face,
the revolution I am looking for.
Again, again, I climb on a tree to see the harbour,
save me from a prison of bombing,
take me on a plane,
14.000 miles from home,
the first hope in my heart,
like a plane on Lake Ontario.
While shivers crawl down my spine and I wait for the ending of this war, lulled by the trembling sound of a blurring piano in the cool and clear winter sky hanging on the Big Square.
People are murmuring as I isolate myself. I should walk in the gloomy light of the ancient architectures, down till the crowd melts away.
I won’t never be on time, as the Great Gig in the Sky crashes my thought in a crystalline view of perfection.
Aaah AAAH WAAAAH WAAHWAAAH WAAAoooh.
She sings, as the curtain closes on this stage.
Here, where my heart lingers.